


A Little Less Sixteen Candles

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I would pick up the pace if I were you. Wouldn’t want to fall behind and lose your crown now, right princess?”</p><p>“I’d sooner lock myself in this barn and set it on fire,” she manages, keeping her tone saccharine sweet before flipping him off.</p><p>His grin widens at that, reaching over to drum his fingers against the best sales trophy (the one with <i>her</i> name on it) before striding off, whistling nonchalantly.</p><p>Or; the one where Clarke acquires a Christmas job, some neat gift wrapping skills, and feelings for her annoyingly competitive co-worker.</p><p>[Written for bellarke secret santa 2015]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Less Sixteen Candles

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my bellarke secret santa, who requested a little angst and a whole lot of fluff. This was really supposed to be about, 1k, but I went overboard and it's not 10k so I really hope you like long fics. 
> 
> This fic in its entirety is pretty much my experience when I worked at a christmas village last year, except I had a lot more shouty customers and there weren't any cute boys (or girls) around to make me sandwiches. I mostly fucked around with my best friend and one time she dropped an entire candle display on me because she's the worst. But that's beside the point. Enjoy!

Look, Clarke doesn’t even need this stupid job.

Sure, it’s easy money and it works as a solid excuse to get her out of the house, but she’s considering if it’s _worth_ getting tormented by Bellamy Blake on a daily basis. It’s one of those hate upon first sight situations, where he sneered at her for being late and her only retort had been to criticise the placement of his santa hat.

(“It’s supposed to be perched at a _jaunty_ angle,” she had insisted, and as much as she hates it, she can’t really begrudge him for the princess nickname after.)

Clarke does like her job, Bellamy otherwise, and she would swap shifts with someone else if the schedule wasn’t worked out weeks beforehand. It would be shitty and distinctly _not_ in the spirit of Christmas, she can’t help but think, if she decided to inconvenience someone else out of purely selfish reasons.

Plus, Kane loves it whenever she and Bellamy are on the same shift because they rack up the most sales. Like most things, it’s become a competition of sorts between them, and at this point Clarke’s not sure if it’s the promise of commission that’s driving her or if it’s the satisfaction of beating out Bellamy.

So she’s essentially stuck with her work nemesis for the entire of next month. Clarke can’t say that she’s looking forward to it.

+

Bellamy’s already behind the counter when she swings by for her shift, cutting up rolls of ribbon into even, precise strips.

His brow is furrowed, tongue poking out between teeth as he runs the scissors through the fabric, reindeer antlers perched precariously on his head. Honestly, she would think that it’s pretty cute if it wasn’t coming from him.

“Careful there,” she smirks, pushing into the cramped space and shoving her bag in the allotted shelf, “you might pop a vessel from concentrating too hard.”

He gives an aggrieved snort at that, setting down the scissors only so he can cross his arms over his chest and glare, “Is it too much of a hassle for you to _actually_ come in on time?”

“I told Kane I was coming in late yesterday.” Clarke grimaces, rifling through the box of Christmas themed headgear. She reluctantly shoves the moulting santa hat over her head, pulling it tight over the ears.

“Well, opening up is a two-man job,” he says pointedly, trailing after her when she stomps past him to restock the candles, “it’s impossible to get this contraption opened up without some form of assistance.”

Bellamy might be a drama queen for most things, but she has to admit that opening up is the worst. What was meant to be a simple, pop-up booth was in fact a miniature barn of sorts, with wooden panels that they had to dislodge in the mornings and fit back into place at night.

(Kane had informed her, rather stiffly in fact, that the structure definitely adds some Christmas cheer to the whole enterprise. She’s really not sure how being able to stick her head out like a horse during work hours helps with Christmas spirit but it’s not like he’d take her complaints into account anyway.)

Clarke takes a second to exchange a commiserating glance, before he goes back to glaring at the barn doors like he’s trying to figure out the best possible way to set them on fire.

And maybe it’s because their entire exchange so far has been mildly companionable, but she finds herself asking, “How’s today’s crowd?”

Bellamy jerks out of his stupor, spinning on his heel to face her, “Good. I’ve sold two candle warmers already.”

She opens her mouth, not sure whether to congratulate him or make some sort of cutting comment, but he jumps in before she has the chance.

“I would pick up the pace if I were you. Wouldn’t want to fall behind and lose your crown now, right princess?”

“I’d sooner lock myself in this barn and set it on fire,” she manages, keeping her tone saccharine sweet before flipping him off.

His grin widens at that, reaching over to drum his fingers against the best sales trophy (the one with _her_ name on it) before striding off, whistling nonchalantly.

Clarke contemplates tripping him for all of three seconds before remembering that they are surrounded by fire hazards (all those lit candles, ugh) and it would _probably_ not be the best idea. She settles for giving his shoulder a hard shove when a customer comes by instead.

“This isn’t football,” he snaps, once the customer’s out of range, “no shoving, Clarke.”

“It was a gentle push,” she retorts, the clenching of his jaw only fueling her further, “not my problem you can’t take it.”

His eyes flash dangerously at that, and when he finally speaks it’s through gritted teeth, “Have it your way then.”

They bicker all throughout the lunch crowd- tripping and stumbling over one another to get to customers first, coming up with more and more ridiculous tasks to occupy the other- culminating with Bellamy actually pulling her hat down over her eyes to stall her.

She retaliates by pinching his side, making him yelp, then throws his phone into a mountain of paper bags so he has to painstakingly hunt for it during his lunch break.

“What I don’t get,” Bellamy grunts, kicking a pile of paper bags aside while she finishes her food, perched on the counter, “is _why_ you’re even working. Clearly you have other more important commitments to attend to.”

She can’t help but feel a little stung by that- even though Bellamy insinuates that all of the time anyway- mostly because he actually has a incident to back up his point this time. Did she think that he wouldn’t hold it against her?

“Yeah, well. Us rich folk just love to fritter our time away.” Clarke spits, kicking off the counter and making sure to clip him in the jaw, “I’m going to go restock.”

“I’ve _already_ done that.”

“So how come there’s only three candy cane lane’s on the shelf?” she says meanly, yanking the drawer open furiously and grappling with a full box, “Can’t do anything right now, can you?”

It goes deathly silent for a good five minutes- the only sound being the Michael Buble CD playing in the background and her ripping through the box with her bare hands- before Bellamy finally says, eerily calm and full of malice, “Well, fuck you Griffin.”

“Fuck you too,” she manages, tears springing to her eyes before she turns her face away.

(She’s pretty sure it’s the first time they both really meant it.)

+

It’s just bad luck that the crowd thins out sometime around 5.30, because she can’t even pretend that she’s not ignoring him now.

To be fair, Bellamy’s studiously avoiding her too, busying himself by rearranging the display case and recounting the receipts. Clarke mostly just hovers somewhere outside the barn, glaring up at the sky (still _no_ snow) and cleaning off the yankee candle signboard with windex.

She heads back in when Murphy from nature’s wonders starts to leer at her (honestly, she’d take a sullen Bellamy over Murphy any day) and settles back behind the counter to fuck around on the computer. There’s no wifi, but she does play a rousing session of checkers with the computer.

He gives up at pretending to look busy sometime later, dragging a chair over and settling down somewhere within the vicinity. She chances a quick peek through her hair. There’s a foot worth of space between them, but it’s close enough to conduct a quiet conversation if they wanted to.

Not that she wants to, or anything. Not at all.

“Beach boys,” he says after the CD ends and Clarke ejects the disc by tapping at the player with her foot.

She arches a single brow at him, waits.

“Please,” Bellamy sighs and she relents, partly because she feels bad but really because she likes it a lot better when they’re talking.

She finally musters up the courage to speak sometime around track three.

“So what are you’re doing for Christmas this year?”

He blinks at her, fidgets slightly in his chair like he’s not sure what to do with his hands now that she’s looking at him. Then, rather apprehensively, “The usual. Cooking Christmas dinner with my sister, watching crappy movies on cable.”

She stifles a smile that threatens to show, asks instead, “What, no netflix?”

“So maybe I’m not that _great_ at technology,” Bellamy mutters, scrubbing at his hair agitatedly, “it’s not like I’m missing out on much anyway.”

“Yeah you are.” Clarke tells him and he scowls at her, and she scowls back- and for a second it seems like things are back to normal, but then he has to ask, “So what are you and _your_ family up to this year?”

“Oh, you know.” She makes a vague gesture with her hands, takes a swig of water, “Nothing too out of the ordinary. Turkey, champagne, pretentious parties topped with a divorce. Standard stuff.”

“Shit, Clarke.” he says, distress clear in his voice- and she would look but she’s stupidly scared that if she did, she’d cry- so she faces forward instead, counts the number of candles on the bottom shelf.

“Was that-” He winces, ducking his head and staring down at his shoes, “was that why you came in late today?”

“Yeah,” Her voice has gone stupidly hoarse, so she takes another sip of water, wishes it was vodka instead, “went through some divorce proceedings together. My mom likes me to be aware.”

“That’s a pretty fucked up thing to do,” Bellamy declares, flat, and it’s hard not to snort a little at the conviction in his voice.

“Tell me about it,” She caps the empty bottle, shoves it into the make-shift trash can which is actually just a torn paper bag from sephora, “that’s why I _got_ this job, shit-face.”

“I already said I was sorry,” he says, mild, and yeah, that’s probably the best she’s ever going to get out of him so she doesn’t push any further.

He watches her play checkers for a while, groaning and making phlegmy, old-man noises whenever she makes a mistake or when the computer outsmarts her. She’s this close to reaching over and smacking him in the head when he clears his throat, asks, “Wanna play chess?”

“Don’t know how,” Clarke admits, rather grudgingly but also self-conscious, certain he’s going to laugh at her or say something downright rude-

“I’ll teach you,” he says instead, without even batting an eyelid, moving his chair closer and breathing over her shoulder while he points out the pieces.

They manage to sell a set of tea candles before closing time, and she’s a pretty proficient player by then too. Certainly not enough to beat Bellamy, of course, but enough to put up a fight.

“This is going to break my back,” he grumbles, lifting one of the wooden planks and handing it over to her so she can secure it from the inside, “you think Kane will pay for my medical bills?”

She grunts, latching the planks together with considerable force, “Sure, if you sue.”

“Now, who has time for that?” Bellamy snarks, voice muffled through the planks. She catches a glimpse of his mussed hair from between the cracks, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

“Secure?” she calls out.

“Yup,” he replies, and she trudges out from the back door, locking it behind her and walking out into the darkness of the village.

“You would think that they’d keep some lights on for us employees,” Clarke shivers, looping her scarf around her neck haphazardly as she fumbles to switch on her phone’s torchlight.

“Waste of electricity,” He says, absentminded, then halts in his steps so abruptly she runs into his back.

“If anything else crops up, uh with the divorce stuff,” He’s rubbing the back of his neck now, embarrassed, and some part of her wonders if he’d dare say any of this if they were back in the brightly lit shop instead of an emptied-out carpark, “you can always text me. I’ll cover for you. And it’ll be nice to know beforehand if you’re not going to be there for opening, or anything like that.”

She swallows, wets her lips because it turns out Bellamy Blake is not a total dick and she’s not too sure how to react to this new development, “Uh, yeah. Sure. I don’t have your number though.”

He passes her his phone wordlessly, and she keys in her contact details, convinces herself that the only reason her hands are shaking is because of the cold. Clarke really should have brought gloves.

“See you,” he tells her when they get to her car, veering off to head to the bus stop. Somehow, the thought of him sitting in the cold, all alone, makes her stomach churn.

“Bye,” she calls out weakly, then gets into the car before she can do anything else stupid. She’s hit her quota for today.

+

They go back to sniping at each other the very next day- Bellamy forgets to hang up the Christmas lights in proper formation, Clarke doesn’t reload the paper for the receipts- but the urge to throttle him has diminished considerably, so she mostly just pushes him around and kicks at his ankles instead.

“You know what bugs me about this place?” he says, sudden, boots clomping loudly against the hardwood floors as he shifts box after box into the storage space, “how fucking overpriced everything is.”

“It’s a tourist trap,” she mumbles, weary, exhausted from the influx of customers and the disappointingly clear skies (no snow),“that’s how it’s done.”

“I get the concept of commercialization.” Bellamy grumbles, thumping his head against a beam, “I just hate that I’m contributing to it. Murphy tried to sell me a pack of almonds for $11 yesterday.”

“Monroe from the crepes booth gives discounts to anyone working here.”

“Where’s that even?”

“Next to the ice palace,” she says pointedly, gauging his reaction carefully, “you know where that is.”

It’s something that she’s noticed about Bellamy, how he always lingers by the ice palace during breaks, leaning up against the railing to watch the kids skate. Hunched over and watching them intently, taking in the glide of the skates and the spray of the ice. It makes her curious.

“No,” he says, a tad too sharp, “I don’t. Is that where the snow playground is?”

And she should probably let it go already, but Clarke’s pretty persistent and this has been bugging her for weeks, “Next to it. Are you any good at it?”

“Good at _what_?” he snaps, turning his back towards her, the flex of muscles under his shirt distracting her thoroughly for a minute before she snaps out of it.

“Ice skating, dummy.”

“Octavia’s great at it.” Bellamy replies, short, and at her inquisitive stare, adds, “My sister. She learned how to ice skate when she was eight.”

“Did she teach you?” Clarke asks, looping a ribbon through the handles of the bag, tying it off into a knot.

“We could only afford one pair of skates,” His voice is flat, carefully measured like he couldn’t care less, “and I never liked the cold anyway.”

“Yeah,” She agrees, swallowing down the lump in her throat because it’s _yearning_ , that’s the look in his eyes when he’s standing by, watching, “no big deal. I fell in once, and my mom yelled at me for hours. Said I could have gotten pneumonia.”

He smiles at that, mouth quirking up crookedly, “She sounds like a real charmer.”

“Oh, you’d love her. One time she sent back a entree because there was smudges on the plate.”

“I foresee us becoming great friends,” Bellamy smirks, pushing his hair out of his eyes so the santa hat lies more neatly against it, “I too, insist on the best service from dining establishments. I once asked for no pickles on my double cheeseburger.”

“It’s like you’re the same person,” she says, gasping, and he tosses a tea light over at her, pegging her right in the forehead, “no throwing, you heathen.”

“Says the star quarterback. You left a bruise on my shoulder from yesterday, you savage.”

“It was a gentle tap,” Clarke teases, and to illustrate her point, jabs him in the chest, “see? Exactly like that.”

“It was a tackle and you know it,” he retorts, defensive, before she reaches over to poke at him again, “cut it out! Your nails are all pointy, it’s a fucking nuisance.”

She stares down at her nails- short and practical, splatters of paint caught under them- definitely not sharp, or even-

“Bellamy Blake, are you _ticklish_?”

“Get away from me.” he says instantaneously, backing away when she grins up at him, “I mean it, Clarke. Don’t even think about it.”

“Don’t get all jumpy,” she chides, bursting into giggles when he jerks away from her and nearly falls onto a display, “jeez. I get it, you’re not ticklish.”

He squints at her, wary, hiding behind the counter so that only his santa hat is visible, “Tell anyone and you’re done for, Clarke.”

“Not a soul,” she replies, solemn, and she holds out until Raven comes in for her shift before breaking.

“Huh,” Raven says, nonchalant even in the face of Bellamy’s withering glare as he stomps out of the store, “I never knew.”

She snickers, “Doesn’t look like the kind now, does he?”

“I’m more curious on how you managed to find out,” Raven adds, then a tad too innocently, “what’s the context?”

Clarke shrugs, keeps her gaze fixed on the spot she’s trying to clean off the glass case, “So I may have tickled him.”

“But I thought you guys hated each other,” She would be alarmed by how downright _delighted_ Raven sounds, but Raven’s been making her case since day one that they should just get rid of all the tension by fucking already, “you don’t tickle someone you hate.”

“You do if he hates it,” she mutters, petulant, and yeah, she’s not even making sense at this point. Raven’s smile is so huge it’s painful to look at.

“I heard that the locker room by the ice place is a great place to have sex,” she announces, and Clarke decides that it’s probably best to lock herself in the back room until Raven regains some sense.

+

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“It’s a receipt,” Bellamy says airily, “for three hundred dollars.”

“What, did you sell your kidney instead?” she grouses, swatting it away from her face as he trails behind her, smug and stupid and eager, like she’s going to pat him on the head for doing his job.

“No, just a whole bunch of warmers and the double wick candles.” he answers, cleaning off the trophy stand ( _hers_ ) with his sleeve, “Take one last good look, Clarke. It’s mine by next week.”

“It’s just a cheap piece of plastic,” she says, forcing a dismissive laugh. “And I get to bring it home. He’ll have to make you a new one.”

“Please,” he shoots back, “Kane is way too cheap for that. He’ll just get the plate replaced.”

He’s probably right, of course, but she’s not going to tell him that.

“This must be the biggest accomplishment of your life,” Clarke adds, monotonous, throws in a sarcastic half-clap, “do you want me to throw you a party?”

“To celebrate me beating you? Definitely. I’m always up for a good victory party.” He makes a face at that, a comical drawn-out grimace that makes her roll her eyes, “Probably would be awkward for you though, right? Is it?”

“Nah,” She says, forcing herself to sound positively pleasant, “your attempts to goad me are pretty pathetic, actually.”

“Whatever you say, Clarke.” He grins, tapping at the plate so his nails screech against the metal. “Enjoy these last few days.”

+

There are two stipulated half-an-hour breaks for people on twelve hour shifts. Bellamy likes to spend them hovering by the ice palace; Clarke likes to spend them sitting on the rock.

The rock is exactly what it is, huge and crooked, situated right by the back of the store for maximum inconvenience. Kane always says that it helps the fengshui of the store, but Clarke’s pretty convinced that it was once part of a display for something before the organisers forgot about it.

Either way, it’s a nice place to sit. It’s right by the luminarie light sculptures, so she sketches them when she gets bored or watches the kids go crazy over the blizzard showcase. (Literally a foam cannon and some bubbles sprinkled in between but the kids love it.)

She’s working through her stash of carrot sticks and going through her instagram feed when Bellamy plops down beside her, thick jacket thrown over his shoulders and sliding up against her bare arm.

Clarke frowns, “Shouldn’t you be manning the counter?”

“Nah. Kane’s trying to get the POS system fixed and it got a little crowded with all the tech people, so they chased me out.” He’s momentarily distracted by the speckles of foam landing on his jeans, the cuffs of his jacket, before he asks, “Is that all you’re eating?”

“Uh, yeah. I like carrots.” she says, pointedly biting into one, “I take it that you’re not a fan?”

“You never eat _any_ proper meals,” Bellamy replies instead, downright accusatory, “it’s always some kind of snack, like cheese sticks or carrots-”

“I had a crepe-”

“You had a crepe once.” Then sounding almost pained, “With marshmallow fluff as filling.”

“I can take care of myself.” she snaps, and for some reason her face feels stupidly hot, “Why do you care?”

He flushes at that too, averting his gaze over to light sculptures instead. “Look, I just think you should eat something more substantial if you’re going to be on shift for twelve hours. I don’t want you fainting on me.”

“What are the odds of Kane telling you to use smelling salts instead of taking me to the hospital if _that_ happens?”

At least that gets him to laugh- deep and low and raspy- the kind that goes down to your toes. She shivers, grabs onto her elbows to steady herself.

“Pretty high.” he says, shaking out the foam gathered in his hair, “You know I’m not trying to pick on you or anything right? It’s just--” He pauses, then adds rather unconvincingly, “nutrition is important.”

“And you’re a big brother,” she tells him, “it’s not in your nature to not worry.”

He huffs at that, but the corners of his mouth are tilted up like he’s holding back on a smile, “Shut up.”

“You’re only mad because I’m right.” Clarke teases, and he scowls, steals a carrot stick from her in retaliation.

She didn’t think he would remember the conversation after, let alone do something about it- but here they are, with Bellamy handing her a packet of tin foil and mumbling something about making too many sandwiches by mistake.

“Why were you even making sandwiches in the first place?” Clarke demands, unwrapping it carefully. He even cut the crusts off.

“Octavia.” he says immediately, “She thinks school food is the worst.”

“ _Bellamy_.”

The tips of his ears are red, and he’s pointedly looking everywhere but at her. Clarke’s half tempted to grab onto his chin so he’ll stop darting around already.

“I’ll just trash it, if you don’t want it.” he stutters, pulling his hands from his pockets so he can try to grab it from her.

“I didn’t say that I didn’t want it,” she yelps, the bread still warm against her skin, “I do want it.”

“Fine.”

“ _Fine_.” She breathes, ducking out so she can eat it while sitting on the rock. It’s a pretty impressive sandwich actually, peanut butter and toasted just right so the bread’s brown and crispy around the edges.

“Good, right?” Bellamy asks, stupidly smug, when she re-emerges.

“It was okay. Kinda dry,” she adds, mostly to bait him into reacting, but instead his smile just grows wider.

“My wounded pride is telling me to make you another sandwich and prove you wrong.”

“I don’t care,” Clarke mutters, ducking her head so all she can see are his worn-out sneakers.

(It’s only fitting that she brings cookies for him the next day. Fair is fair, and besides they’re _store-bought_. No big deal.)

+

He’s not-- he’s really not what she expected.

Clarke knew him in facts, before. In statements that could be used to fill up forms and obituaries, walls of text that didn’t really mean anything and she can’t help but feel wrong-footed about it all.

He’s reading when she gets in, glasses perched low on the nose and book held haphazardly in one hand, flipping the pages with his pinky finger in a way that suggests he does this a lot. Her mouth goes dry.

“You wear glasses?” she says, at the same time he goes, “You’re actually early.”

“Mine’s _actually_ a question.” She points out, sliding past him and busying herself with her bag so she has an excuse not to look at him, “Glasses?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy mutters, toeing the ground almost nervously, “I usually have my contacts in but I ran out of solution.”

Clarke makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, which Bellamy must interpret as some form of dismissal because he goes back to reading his book. He only has a few pages left- which she’s not even surprised about considering the way he’s devouring the book right now- so she lets him finish up while she restocks and cuts up more ribbons for the bags.

She’s humming along to _merry christmas baby_ when he finally sidles up to her, looking a little shamefaced, distinctly puppy-like, and she has to bite at the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“Sorry.” he says, mournful, winding a strand of ribbon around his finger, “I should have done this earlier.”

“It’s fine. I needed the practice anyway.” Bellamy always does the swallow tail cut a lot neater and more precise than she does, one of her many grievances with him before, “I’m going to get ridiculously good at this. You ought to be worried.”

“Dream big,” he snarks, retrieving his own pair of scissors, “don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”

“It’s really not a big deal.” she says, mild, and mostly because she wants him to stop with the guilt trip already, “What’s the book about?”

“It’s pretty dry.” Bellamy mutters, and it takes her awhile to place his tone but she realises he’s actually _self-conscious_ about it, “Trust me, most people I know start snoring after I tell them the synopsis.”

She nudges him in the ribs until he relents, slow and reluctant at first, constantly pausing to ask if she still wants to know more. He really gets into it half-way through explaining the characters to her, and it’s impossible to get him to shut up when he starts on the world-building.

Clarke wants to say that it’s annoying, but it’s actually pretty cute. And also fascinating because it actually sounds like the type of book she would love to read, instead of the pretentious titles that people are always recommending her to get into so they’d sound smart.

He texts her the link to the book’s page on goodreads after, _just in case_ with a fucking smiley face right under it. She just stares at it, mostly, tries to reconcile the impression she had of Bellamy before and the Bellamy she knows now. Fails.

 _Trust me_ , she types, _I didn’t need anymore convincing._

And when he replies, _didn’t think you had it in you, Clarke,_ it feels a lot like a compliment.

+

Bellamy texts her again the next day while she’s in the shower, a vaguely worded message about helping out during the weekend rush. She sends back an affirmative, maybe a few emojis so she sounds less aggressive.

The row of question marks he sends her along with a message demanding to know why she sent him a bunch of boxes is enough to make her burst into laughter, muffling the sound in her palm as steam fogs up the mirror.

It’d be endearing, she thinks, if it was anyone else but her broody, annoyingly competitive co-worker.

 _I’ll make fun of you later during work_ , she promises him, but then gets distracted when he starts complaining about Kane, and the new display they have him working on and yet another outlandish customer.

The water’s gone cold by the time she jumps in the shower, but she can’t say she minds too much.

+

Kane makes a whole bunch of useless changes over the course of the week: displaying the candles in a Christmas tree formation, using silver ribbon instead of red, ordering in a shipment of mandarin cranberry candles despite the fact that it’s not a part of their Christmas lineup.

But the worst? The worst thing, Clarke thinks, grim, has to be the carollers.

“Euthanize me.” Bellamy begs when they start up all over again, launching into a off-key rendition of _silent night_. They do it right outside their store too, like they’re taunting them or something. He’s taken to opening up the cash register and shoving his face in it because he claims it muffles the sound, just a little.

“Maybe Kane overheard us talking about his hair that one time,” she tells him, solemn, slumped under the counter, her head brushing up against the lip of it, “this must be payback.”

“I’d rather have him fire me,” he whimpers as one of them hits a sharp, high note, “this is the worst kind of torture there is.”

Clarke rubs at her temples, has to remind herself not to grind her teeth. At least it’s only half-an-hour every day, and not throughout the day. It’s relatively quieter in terms of customers during this time period anyway, so Bellamy can put his face in the cash register and she can hide under the counter.

He cracks on a Wednesday, when they decide that covering Mariah Carey would be a good idea.

“No,” he says wildly, tripping over the extension cord and nearly taking her down with him, “I will not stand for this, Clarke-”

She grabs on to his forearm, tries to school her face into calm neutrality even though she’s pretty impressed by how firm it actually is, “Kane will crazy-murder you if you actually do something.”

“I am three seconds away from ripping my hair out,” he declares, so she shoves him under the counter and crawls in after him.

“Are we building a fort?” Bellamy asks, completely serious, “because I have considered it, and we should probably use the christmas cookie’s as a base-”

“You’re really melodramatic,” she mutters, edging her bag back in place with her foot and turning to face him. His breath warms her face, sweeps against the skin of her wrist when she reaches over to shove the earbuds in.

He stares, confused, until she starts up the music, a blaringly loud rock number that she can vaguely make out in all the chaos.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” he says, overly loud in the small space, his skin warm against hers when he scoots to make more room for her, “what about you?”

“I was thinking of putting my face into the cash register,” she remarks, dry, moving into a crouch so she can duck out seamlessly.

“Hey!” he yelps, grabbing onto her wrist, tugging until she sits back down clumsily, knees bumping and his hand still wrapped around hers.

“What?” she asks, cursing the breathless quality of her voice, how she can’t stop looking at the small, crescent shaped scar by his mouth. She’s never noticed it before.

He slides a banged up iPod into her hand, the wires still coiled neatly over its body. There’s B.B written on the back with black sharpie and O.B dashed off in blue nail polish. She powers it up, untangles the wires carefully, keeping her face down so he can’t see her flush. (Bellamy Blake is still looking at her and it’s doing things to her insides.)

There’s a good mix of genres on his iPod, musical numbers, classic rock, Taylor Swift even. Clarke pulls her knees up to her chest, rests her chin against it so she can hide her smile. He’s tapping out a rhythm with his foot, even bobbing his head a little, and god, she’s kind of charmed by it. Just a smidgen.

 _Don’t stare_ , he mouths, nudging her with his foot until she responds, rolling her eyes and casting her gaze up instead. There’s deep scratches against the base of the table, spit-up wads of gum too and it’s strange how at ease she feels right now, sharing a dark, quiet space with Bellamy Blake while everything else moves along.

“We need to do this again tomorrow,” he tells her after, looking calmer than she has seen him all week.

“Definitely,” she agrees, and a part of her is tempted to point out that they could just listen to their own respective iPods, really, but he hands over his the very next day too.

The carollers leave by the end of the week, but the arrangement still stands anyway.

“You must _really_ like sitting in cramped, dark spaces with each other, huh?” Raven says pointedly, smirking when they emerge with dust in their hair and ears still ringing.

“Shut up,” Bellamy mutters, a faint blush spreading over his cheekbones, and the only reason Clarke keeps grinning about it is because he looks ridiculous, okay?

(“Keep telling yourself that,” Raven says, snide, when she shares her theory and yeah, it’s official. Raven Reyes is the worst.)

+

Clarke really wasn’t planning on hitting the supermarket two days before Christmas- she didn’t have to, considering she’s having dinner with her dad on the twenty sixth and her mom on the twenty eighth- but she had a craving for cookies and no one ever goes to the corner store, anyway.

Or so she thought. Clarke might be hallucinating, though. Bellamy Blake standing in an aisle full of candy dressed in pyjama pants is a little hard to process.

“Uh.” she manages when he finally looks up, his eyes lighting up in recognition, “I didn’t think anyone else came here.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so either.” He laughs, kicking up the overly long hem of his pants, “I don’t normally leave the house in my pyjamas.”

“Not a bad look.” she says without thinking, and the smirk that inches up his face makes her want to _die_.

“So what brings you here?” Bellamy asks, snagging a box of junior mints and dumping it into an already overflowing basket, “I’m pretty sure you told me you were doing dinner on the twenty sixth.”

“Sugar craving.” she admits, tilting her head towards the neatly arranged rows of butter cookies, “I swear I just bought a box but, well.”

He’s still staring at her, brow furrowing as he worries his lip with his teeth, as if trying to work out something incredibly complex in his head. She’s almost tempted to reach up and flick the point between his brows, tell him to stop thinking so hard already-

“Do you want to stop by for dinner?” he blurts, and well. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t that.

“As in, at your house?”

Bellamy winces, shifting the basket in his hand to the other, “Yeah, uh. I’m working on Christmas day, so Octavia and I are having our Christmas dinner early this year. So if you didn’t have any plans-- it’s nothing fancy, really. Just a whole bunch of junk food and maybe pasta.”

“What happened to nutrition being important?” she asks, working to sound innocent as he shoots her a glare, nervousness draining from him as they settle back into familiar territory.

“It’s my sister’s turn to pick this year. I would have knocked your socks off if I could have set the menu. I make a killer cider roast turkey.”

“Says the guy who can’t even make a sandwich up to my discerning standards.” she sighs.

He grins at her in response, all boyish charm and sloppy in his flannel pants and crooked glasses, relaxed in a way that she’s never actually seen before. (Clarke really, _really_ likes it.)

They pick up potatoes, pasta, cookie dough and every other possible ingredient that is a thirteen year old’s wet dream. Bellamy even gets _jelly_ , the ones with the little cubes suspended in them, the kind she hasn’t eaten since she was eight. (“It’s nata de coco,” He tells her, clearly amused by her enthusiasm.)

He tells her about Octavia on the walk over to his house- that her favourite color is red, that she loves butterflies more than anything- and she finds herself telling him about Wells, about her father. The only two people, she thinks, whom she can talk about the way he talks about Octavia, with fondness and absolute certainty.

“Don’t be expecting a castle now.” Bellamy mutters when they round the corner, kicking an empty beer can out of the way as they trudge up a well-worn path to a small house perched on a hill. She can make out a lone figure sitting on a porch swing if she squints, and she reasons that it’s probably the elusive Octavia.

“You’re probably wondering about my parents.” he says, abrupt, and before she can say anything, he continues, “I never knew my dad and my mom’s not really around anymore. So don’t bring it up in front of Octavia, okay?”

Clarke swallows, wonders if there’s ever a right response to something like this. It’s the way he says it too, baldly and matter-of-fact, like he couldn’t care less. It’s the furthest thing from the truth, she thinks, but Bellamy has always been fond of hiding his feelings under a veneer of not giving a damn.

“Okay,” she manages, reaching out to take his hand before she can chicken out. His palm is warm and dry, grip loose in hers, and just when she thinks she should let go before it gets anymore awkward, he squeezes her hand and laces their fingers together.

Bellamy has a much longer stride than she does- so she almost has to jog to keep up at first- but he must notice at some point because he slows down instead, matches her pace. Clarke’s tempted to tell him that it’s not necessary, that he should just let go of her since they’re nearing the front door already anyway, but she likes the way his hand fits with hers a little too much to say anything about it.

Octavia is sitting on the porch swing when they arrive, a rickety one with peeling paint that creaks obnoxiously loud when she pushes off from it to grab some of the bags from Bellamy, dark brown hair arcing between her shoulder blades as she shoots Clarke a smirk.

“Are you Bellamy’s girlfriend?” she asks point-blank, obviously not the type to mince her words or falter, despite Bellamy’s hissed _Octavia_ and the glare he sends her way.

Luckily, she’s spared from answering when the ice cream tears through the bag and thumps against the floor, eliciting chaos as both Blake's scramble to recover it, with Octavia even insisting that they could just scrape the amount off the floor and eat it. (“No, O. When was the last time we swept the floor?”)

They make their way inside once the porch is declared semi-clean, with Octavia insisting that they need to start on the mashed potatoes first because they taste best cold. Bellamy argues that they should do the pasta first because he has to prep the sauce and Clarke just resigns herself to peeling the potatoes until they grow up already.

“Hey, Clarke, no.” he says, adamant when he notices her with the peeler in hand, “You’re a guest here. Uhm, we have a TV and I have some games-”

“I like helping out,” she says, and Octavia beams at her like she’s her new best friend. It’s really cute.

Bellamy scowls, reaches over to ruffle Octavia’s hair until she squawks, “You’re just happy because you don’t have to do the prep work.”

“I’m helping!” she yells, indignant, and goes back to spreading cream cheese on a stick of celery.

“Teenagers.” he grumbles, ambling over to Clarke and retrieving a potato from her pile, “Were we as bad when we were their age?”

“You were definitely worse,” Clarke tells him, and he flicks a potato skin at her in response.

+

They head out to the porch once Octavia goes to sleep, exhausted from an entire day’s worth of cooking and pigging out while watching old Christmas movies on cable. She’s at the age where she refuses to let Bellamy tuck her in, but grudgingly lets him drop a kiss on her forehead instead.

“Wow,” Clarke tells him when he settles in next to her, clutching his cup of jelly like a lifeline, “teenagers sure can be terrifying.”

“You don’t have to live with one,” he ribs, goodnatured, before ripping off the plastic tab with his teeth.

“Octavia, though. I like her a lot.” she admits, breaking the smooth surface of the jelly to scoop up a large chunk, “She’s a lot like you in certain aspects.”

“And here I thought I was the worst thing that happened to you,” Bellamy says, “a blight in your otherwise promising retail career.”

“That part’s true, at least.” She shivers, zipping up the coat Bellamy loaned her. She’s still in her socks and so is he, his hair curling damply against his neck from when he took a shower after cooking.

“Oh come on.” he says, jostling her shoulder, “You have to admit that it was pretty fun.”

“Yeah,” Clarke laughs, “and really bad for my blood pressure. Shoot.” She pauses, licking at the spot of juice on her thumb, “You were a huge ass, Bellamy Blake.”

He doesn’t respond- not right away, at least- and when she turns to look at him, he’s sort of gaping at her, eyes wide and jaw hanging open. She stares back, wrinkling her brow at him until he clears his throat and goes, “I’m not even going to try and defend myself on this.”

“That’s right,” she mutters, pleased, sticking out her toes and wiggling them at him tauntingly. Bellamy groans, lurches back against the swing so it gives a ominous groan, swinging them forward slightly.

Clarke swears, sets down her jelly to grab onto the rusting chains, “This thing is a death trap.”

He smirks over at her, “You were one of those kids who were afraid of swinging too high, weren’t you?”

Her face heats up at that, “Was _not_.”

(She was, actually. Wells always wanted to go all the way round, whereas she would fret whenever her dad pushed her a little too hard. Falling in the sand pit just didn’t seem like an all that great experience.)

Bellamy cracks up at her petulant expression, says in between breathless gasps, “God, I bet you were a terror on the playground. Like I’m picturing you either tormenting other kids by being all bossy or getting stuck on those climbing frames because you’re too scared to go all the way to the top.”

“I was a greater climber, you prick.” she grumbles, smacking his distractingly firm bicep before pushing off her feet again, launching the swing higher. It groans louder than before.

“What the fuck, Clarke. What are you--”

“I’m proving a point!” she pants, kicking back and swinging her legs out, “I’m not afraid of swinging too high. I’m not scared of anything.”

“I’m scared that you might actually break this thing.” he swears, grappling for purchase against the porch floor, “It’s older than me.”

“Well, I’m not going to stop until you admit that I’m not a playground terror.” Clarke says, barely throwing her hand out in time to keep her cup of jelly from sliding off.

“Never,” Bellamy tells her, mock-grave, just as the chains give a ear-splitting shriek.

“Oh come on,” she wheedles, “it’s literally five words.”

He opens his mouth, and just when she thinks he’s about to say it, he lunges forward instead, sweeping her legs up and making her shriek, his arm banding around her back and pressing her up against the wood.

They’re still swinging now, albeit more gently, her heart is still pounding distractedly loud in her ears when he gives a short laugh, the tips of his lashes brushing up against her cheek.

“You’re the worst,” Clarke declares, and it’s only at that does he seem to realise how close they are, his smile fading as he swallows, wetting his lips.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Bellamy says instead, hoarse, but he doesn’t pull away either, his thumb pressing insistently against her spine. It makes her breath catch.

Just when he leans in, warm breath fanning across her mouth, the swing gives an unearthly, piercing groan, lurching to the side and tipping him over her shoulder instead, cups of jelly sliding off and plopping onto the ground with a wet _thunk._

She can’t help it, she bursts into laughter at that and so does he, pulling back carefully so he can flip them over with his toe.

“Well, there goes the porch floor.” he adds, deadpan, and that sets them off all over again.

“I should go,” Clarke says, reluctant, after they’ve cleaned up the last of the mess, “my mom’s going to kick up a fuss about being home at normal hours and what not.”

“I’ll walk you.” he says immediately, and at her arched brow, mutters, “I’m not going to let you walk home alone in the cold.”

“Who would have thought,” she teases, shoving on her boots, “Bellamy Blake, a gentleman.”

He’s not even looking at her when she says this, his head tilted up to the sky instead, hands outstretched. When he turns back to her, the expression on his face is downright radiant.

“Clarke,” He grins, “It’s snowing.”

She grins back.

+

She calls Wells because he’s better at this than she is.

“This is purely hypothetical.” she tells him when he picks up, “But what do I do if I have a huge crush on my co-worker?”

He pauses, and she can make out the rustling of sheets in the background as he sits up, “Pray tell, is it Raven?”

“I would date Raven,” Clarke admits, flopping down onto her bed, “but no.”

“Good, because I was planning on asking her out.” Wells add, absentminded, then almost instantaneously, “Oh my god, why are you the way you are?”

She shoots up from her bed, dislodging her pillow and sending it flying, “I didn’t even _tell_ who it was!”

“It’s that guy you’re always complaining about,” He jumps in, smug, “Barry something. Boyd.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke mutters, and at Well’s triumphant _ha!_ she adds, “look, I didn’t see it coming either.”

“Yeah, right. I went by the store one time and I nearly _drowned_ in all that sexual tension. It was suffocating, Clarke.”

“You know, if you’re not going to help out-”

“I am going to.” he says, sounding a little hurt, “Jeez. I can’t believe you have so little faith in me.”

She groans, falls back down onto her bed so it bounces underneath her slightly, “Just tell me what to do already.”

“Have you thought about just telling him how you feel?”

Clarke scrunches up her nose, pulls her knees up so they’re facing the ceiling, “Like, in a text?”

“Definitely not,” Wells says, snorting, “I meant like a sincere, heartfelt confession or something.”

“Okay so-”

“In person!” he adds sharply, before she can finish, “Sorry but anyway. Go on.”

“Telling him is in the cards, it’s just.” She fiddles with a loose thread attached to the hem of her sleep shorts, yanks, “I’m not sure what to say.”

“How about I want to have your babies?” Wells snickers, and Clarke throws her arm over her face, muffling her sigh in the crook of her elbow.

“A grand gesture,” he tells her once he’s finished laughing, “do something nice for him, Clarke. Like in every one of those cheesy rom-coms that you hate to admit you love.”

“You made me watch the proposal.” she accuses, but there’s no heat behind her words anyway. (She does love a good Sandra Bullock movie.)

“Yup,” Wells yawns, “totally coerced you into doing it. Now will you just go to sleep already?”

“Shouldn’t you be all like, _I’ll stay up with you all night to be supportive and talk about your feelings, Clarke_?” she goads, padding to her door to switch off the lights before clumsily stumbling back to her cocoon of blankets.

“You already know how you feel about him.” He says sleepily, words slurred and heavy and instinctively she closes her eyes too, the racing of her heart slowing in time to the sound of his voice, “Now do something about it already.”

+

Bellamy’s actually late for their shift on Christmas Eve, which means Clarke spends about fifteen minutes wrestling with the wooden planks before getting the doors open.

The worst part is that there’s already a small crowd gathered- last minute Christmas shoppers giving her the stink eye for taking forty-five minutes to set up. It’s all kinds of absurd considering dismantling the structure already takes a good fifteen minutes, but it’s not like they would understand anyway.

So she’s hot and sweaty and grumpy when he finally arrives, shaking the snowflakes out of his hair and cheeks flushed adorably pink.

“The bus took forever today.” Bellamy groans, stomping the snow out of his boots and unwinding his scarf, “But there shouldn’t be much customers today. Hopefully.”

“You just missed a whole horde of them.” she grumbles, chucking him his santa hat so she doesn’t have to look at his puppy-dog expression any longer, “Last minute Christmas shoppers are the worst. They’re all grouchy and mean-”

“The worst,” he agrees, before plopping something on her head in a deceptively casual gesture, “here you go.”

She slides the weight off, letting it drop on the counter despite Bellamy’s half-hearted protests.

“Isn’t it a little early for lunch?” Clarke asks, poking at the neatly wrapped tinfoil.

“It’s technically a breakfast sandwich.” he mutters, “It has all your favorite stuff from yesterday, see? Three kinds of cheese, pesto, bacon. Scrambled eggs and that pork sausage patty that you kept eating yesterday.”

She can’t help it, she grins, reaching over to poke his side, “Are you telling me you made me a _special_ sandwich?”

“It’s just leftovers.” Bellamy says, gruff, then almost as an afterthought, “It’s not just a sandwich, Clarke. It’s a goddamn _panini_.”

“I’m sorry I’m not as well versed in the culinary arts.” she retorts, but the fact that she’s still beaming definitely takes the bite out her words, “This is the Clarke Griffin panini, isn’t it? The Griffin panini. Has a nice ring to it.”

“Well, don’t-” he halts, cheeks puffed out and pouting, and she pats his cheek fondly, making him scowl instead.

“You’re such a nerd.” Clarke tells him, doesn’t add _and I really like, you dummy_ because she’s saving that for the big, romantic gesture. She even wrote a little speech on the back of her napkin, shoved it somewhere in the recesses of her bag.

“I’ll have you know that a lot of people find me cool.” he adds, still sulking a little, “You could do a survey on it.”

“Okay, how about a really thoughtful nerd instead?” she says, and he blushes all the way to his hairline.

“I’m just- you-” He takes a deep breath, like he’s resigning himself to something, before he goes, “I’ll just go restock.”

“Really thoughtful of you!” Clarke calls out to his receding back, gleeful, and he flips her off before disappearing into the back room.

+

She’s laying out the candles when he stumbles back from his toilet break, swearing under his breath and blowing into his palms, the dark blue of his hoodie speckled with snow and the foam from the blizzard.

“It’s fucking snowing now” Bellamy snorts, “and yet they’re still shooting all that foam all over the place.” He pauses at her nonresponse, eyes sliding over to the picnic mat set over the floor, the array of desserts and snacks she bought from the food stalls. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“This is me feeding you.” Clarke says, patting the spot across her until he sits, crossing his legs fluidly and immediately spearing a dutch poffertje with a fork.

“You know, I had more sandwiches packed.” He laughs, taking a big bite, “Just in case you weren’t sick of them yet.”

“I’m not.” she says primly, because she never ever wants him to stop making sandwiches for her. It’s kind of the best. “But it’s Christmas Eve and we deserve something really nice, so.”

“Technically we’re still on a shift.” he says through a mouthful of poffertje, “Kane’s probably going to dock our pay if he sees this.”

“Our shift is over in half an hour.” Clarke reminds him, wincing at the burn of the hot cocoa as it slides down her throat, “You’re not doing anything after this, right?”

Bellamy pauses, fork still hovering over an assortment of tarts and pastries, “No?”

“Good. I have plans for both of us.”

“You’re not going to drag me out in the woods and murder me, right?” he teases, batting her fork aside and seizing the last churro.

“That’s plan B.” She tells him, smirking when he actually chokes a little on his food.

They take a little longer to close up this time, because it’s Christmas tomorrow and the candles have to be displayed _just_ so. Then there’s all the new stocks to be unpacked too, with them having to rearrange a few shelves to make room for the best seller candles because Kane is an opportunist like that.

It’s past midnight by the time they’ve finished, and ordinarily Clarke would be worried about how dark it is but thankfully she bribed off the tech guys to keep the lights on. The light sculptures are especially pretty in the dark, so she takes a few photos when Bellamy locks up.

“Can you let me in on the plan now?” he whines, drawing up next to her.

“Wow. You must really hate surprises, huh?”

“I’m not exactly known for being patient.” Bellamy admits, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“C’mon.” She tells him, wiggling her fingers until he gets the hint and takes it before she starts pulling him behind her.

A blast of frigid air slams against her face when she unlocks the doors, spotlights still on and christmas carols still playing faintly in the background. Bellamy’s gone strangely pale, his other hand still resting against the door like he’s not sure if he should enter.

“No way.” he recovers, jerking against her hand lightly, “No fucking way, Clarke.”

“I’ll hold your hand the entire time.” she promises, retrieving the two pairs of skates she had Monroe stow away in one of the lockers, “Come on. You’ll love it.”

“I don’t-” He runs his palm over his face, “I’m going to fall flat on my face.”

“You _won’t._ I’m an excellent coach, Bellamy. Don’t doubt my skills.” She hands him his pair, pushes him down to sit, “See if these fit right.”

He mumbles something incoherent under his breath, fidgeting the entire time, but laces them up anyway, burrowing his face against the chunky fabric of his scarf. (She still can make out his humongous grin under it, and god, she really wants to kiss him.)

“All good?” She asks, getting to her feet, and he grabs onto her fingers, taking slight, careful steps forward like a baby fawn walking for the first time.

“I don’t like this.” he says immediately, pinwheeling one of his arms frantically until he regains his balance and leans against her shoulder instead, “I want to be back on solid ground.”

“You’re not even on the _ice_ yet.” she snorts, drumming her fingers on his thigh until he takes the hint and takes bigger, albeit still cautious steps forward.

“Please tell me it gets easier.” Bellamy mutters, grasping onto the rail as she unlocks the door to the rink.

“Slow and steady.” She grins, sliding onto the ice fluidly as he hovers behind her, one skate held precariously above the surface. Then at her encouraging nod, he lowers it, skidding forward almost comically before lurching for her yet again.

He swears continuously against her neck, loud even over the music and her laughter. Clarke grabs onto his forearms, steadies him carefully.

“Okay, bend your knees and lean slightly forward.” She pulls back a little, gives him more room to work but that just makes him panic, staggering back before she gets a hold of him again.

“I can’t believe people do this for fun.” he says a little breathlessly, his cheek pressed against hers, hands digging into her hipbones to stay upright. Clarke would laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but it’s a little hard to concentrate with the proximity.

“Uhm, okay push off with one foot. Don’t dig your skates in, _glide._ ”

“I will fall and smash your body into pieces.”

“You will not.” Clarke mutters, extending her arm slowly so he’s just holding onto her hand instead, “I’m just going to skate and pull you with me, so you’ll see what it’s like, okay?”

He nods, jaw set and brow furrowed in concentration and it’s pretty fucking hilarious, because Bellamy’s taller and broader than she is so lugging him around is almost a chore, really, but he seems to be enjoying himself.

She flexes her fingers when he seems to have gotten a grasp on it, pulls one hand away before slowly letting go. And then he’s _skating_ and yeah, it’s still clumsy and he has to regain his balance every few steps but still.

“Holy shit!” he crows, lifting his arms up shakily while she whoops, the blade of his skates sending a wave of ice forward when he tries to do a twirl and nearly falls over in the process.

Clarke grimaces, calls out, “You should probably save the tricks for later. When you get better at balancing.”

“I’m not bad,” he says, breathless, colliding into her with all the force of a meteor striking earth and making her squeak.

“Bellamy.”

“I didn’t think I was going that fast.” he says, petulant pulling away carefully, his hips still pinning hers against the wall, hands sliding down to cup her jaw instead.

She swallows, cut her glance over to his lips. She can feel his chest heaving against hers, the slight tremble of his hands when he runs his thumb over her cheekbone.

“Thanks for doing this.” Bellamy tells her, soft, loosening his grip on her-

“God, you’re obtuse.” she manages, pulling him down by the ends of his scarf and kissing him hard. Their teeth clack together at first, with his biting down on her lower lip almost painfully before he pulls himself upright, his hands sliding to her neck and moaning into her mouth when she rakes her fingers through his hair.

“I had a big speech planned.” she tells him, once they’ve pulled away to breathe, “It was going to be all romantic and everything. Rose petals and all that jazz.”

“I would have slipped all over it.” he says, grinning stupidly, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers, “Clarke.”

“I like you a stupid amount.” she mumbles, dropping a kiss by the side of his neck, the only place she can reach. “A ridiculous amount, actually.”

“Ugh,” Bellamy groans, nudging her nose with his, all fond, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I had to do all the work here.”

She smacks his chest, smiles into the warmth of his sweater because _he likes her too_ -

“Merry Christmas, Clarke.” he tells her, strobe lights glinting against teeth, his heart beating an erratic rhythm against her hand before pulling her close for another kiss.

(He falls over twice on the way out, dragging her with him, but at least they get to make out messily against the ice, with Bellamy complaining about ice up his pants and Clarke having to press her freezing fingers up against his torso.

It’s a pretty good Christmas, all in all.)


End file.
